


Baby, It's Cold Outside

by quartetship



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, 進撃！巨人中学校 | Shingeki! Kyojin Chuugakkou | Attack on Titan: Junior High
Genre: Christmas, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, M/M, SnK Minibang 2016, Snk mini bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[“I had to get her off my back and it just sort of slipped out, and… I told her it was you.”</p>
<p>“Wait, what? Me?!”]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sthom506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sthom506/gifts).



> This piece was based on a concept requested by my friend Shawn who wanted a JM fake dating au, and obviously I had to take it somewhere festive. Also, this is my contribution to the [SNK Minibang 2016](http://snkminibang.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> Please check out the three amazing pieces of art that my collaborators did for my fic:
> 
> [This one](http://sonicmoustache.tumblr.com/post/150005199791/heres-the-first-of-my-drawings-for-the-2016), by @sonicmoustache (I’m in love with their expressions!)
> 
> [This one](http://emelianss.tumblr.com/post/149973819311/my-second-snkminibang-drawing-this-time-for) by @emelianss (So gorgeous, so spot on.)
> 
> [And this one](http://fitried.tumblr.com/post/149978457163/first-snkminibang-drawing-for-quartetships) by @fitried (Look at these tender dorks in love, I cry.)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who collaborated with me, and to everyone who made this event possible. 
> 
> Enjoy the fluff!

\--

Marco Bodt had a habit of making things harder on himself than they needed to be.

It was a lifelong curse, one that had plagued him through his teenage years and into the first days of university life as he’d struggled to find friends and find himself. He’d known since the twilight of his adolescence that he was gay, and once he was able to admit that to himself, talking to others about it had gotten easier. He had no qualms about tell anyone and everyone who might be curious. Everyone, that is, except for his family.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t  _ tried _ to tell them, but rather that his every attempt was ignored. From attending pride rallies to sewing rainbow patches onto his bags, he had tried for years to bridge the gap and let his mother and her relatives come to the conclusion on their own. Even telling them outright that he wasn’t interested in women or in finding a wife at college was met with nothing more than resigned sighs and shaking heads as they mumbled to themselves and one another about him studying too hard to find love.

Again and again, he all but spelled out for his family exactly why he hadn’t so much as taken a woman to dinner since puberty, and time after time, they did not listen. There was no way to speak sense to a person who had no interest in hearing it.

So as the finish line neared for his college education, he gave up on trying. They’d figure it out on their own, surely. Eventually. Until then, he had too much to worry about in his own mind to dwell on what was on those of his relatives. 

It was a thought for another day, in a future far away. 

In the meantime, he busied himself with preparing for yet another school year and pushed all thoughts of his nonexistent love life to the back of his mind.

\--

The beginning of the semester went smoothly, and Marco came home to visit his mother several times. Family birthdays and reunions were plentiful in the late days of summer, and his mother was insistent that he be there for all of them. He did as she hoped he would, but otherwise kept to himself, creating the space he needed to keep awkward questions about dates and girlfriends at bay. 

Perhaps he shouldn't have. Perhaps it was something that would happen regardless, because on his second weekend at home that August, he overheard his mother talking on the phone, and the topic was very obviously him. Specifically, the very subject he was doing backbends to avoid discussing, being discussed regardless, with or without him.

“I don't know, Denise. It's like he doesn't even  _ try. _ He's such a handsome boy, and so smart - I figured he would have brought a girl home at least once by now, but he's never even  _ spoken _ about one.”

Marco closed his bedroom door, intent on not hearing the rest of the conversation. Taking a deep breath, he tried to understand why his mother felt so entitled to talk about him, like a celebrity or public figure, detached from her life in a way that made her idle chatter harmless. But it wasn’t; her words echoed in his mind, twisting his stomach and his chest in opposite directions. 

He needed to say something, and he was finally angry enough to do it. 

When the sound of her hanging the phone up and returning to her household chores signaled him, he descended the stairs that led down from his childhood bedroom, and rounded the corner into the sitting room, where he found her. She was distracted, humming quietly to herself. Marco cleared his throat.

“I could hear you, earlier.” He said, flatly. As innocent as she looked then, staring back at him quizzically, he did not back down to spare her sensitivities. After all, no one seemed to prioritize his feelings, despite him being the talk of the proverbial town for nearly a decade, running. Leaning hard against the wall, he looked his mother in the eye as he spoke. “I'm sorry I can't be what you want me to be, but that doesn't mean you can talk about me like a child to all your sisters. My love life is my business, and no one else's.”

“You're right,” his mother sighed. “I don't mean to fret about it so much, sweetheart. It's just - you are  _ my _ child, you know. I only want what's best for you, and I just think you'd be much happier if you found someone to spend time with. I know you're not looking for a wife right now, but at least a girlfriend?”

Marco groaned. “You really don't  _ get _ it, do you? And here for a second I thought you were actually apologizing. God, mom, don't you pay any attention? I've been trying to talk to you about this for years, but you only see what you--”

“What I what, Marco? I've never once heard you talk about dating anyone. I just want you to be happy. I think you'd be a lot better off if you had a girlfriend, or at least a date once in awhile.”

“And what if it was a boyfriend?” Marco blurted out. “What if I told you I do have someone, and it's a guy? You remember my friend Jean, from school? What if it's him? What if I said I have a  _ boyfriend, _ mom?”

“I… No you don't.” His mother said firmly. Marco gaped at her, unsure why she would so boldly assert that he was lying, despite the fact that she was very clearly correct. That wasn't the point. 

“How would you know?!” He demanded. She did not back down from him. 

“Because, you would have told me already.”

“I don't tell you anything, mom. Because you never listen!”

With that, Marco ended the conversation with a sharp turn and silence, afraid he might say something even harsher to his mother if he stayed. Upstairs in his bedroom, he sat at the chair beside his desk, prodding at his cell phone, wishing there was a way to undo the confrontation entirely. As justified as he felt, he also hated raising his voice, especially to her. What was worse, he had jumped off the deep end of a very big lie, and he was certain his mother could see through the veil of it. Surely she at least knew him  _ that _ well. When fingers softly tapped at his closed door, he sucked in a sharp breath, an apology already on his tongue before his mother stepped inside - and beat him to it. 

“I'm sorry.” She said softly. She seemed contrite. Marco dragged a hand down over his face. 

“You don't need to be, mom. I'm sorry I yelled at you. I just--”

“You're right, you know,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “I  _ don't _ listen to you like I should. I didn't even remember you had a friend named Jean, much less that…” She trailed off, and suddenly Marco was in the familiar position of feeling guilty for the frown on her face, but for once he actually deserved to. He opened his mouth to speak, but she was standing in front of him in the blink of an eye, looking thoughtful, a determined smile painted on her face.

“Bring Jean home with you this Christmas. I want to meet him. I want to give you both my blessing.” It was evident she was proud of the suggestion. She stood tall, head high and chest forward as she laid it out to him, but Marco could feel every drop of blood that left his face as he paled in horror at the thought.

“Mom, that's… That's really sweet, but I. I shouldn't have - I don't actually--”

“No, that's that, okay?” She insisted. “Bring him home, and we’ll welcome him like one of our own. I’ll show him that he's welcome here, and remind you that you are, too.” Lingering for a moment longer, she cupped Marco’s chin gently in one hand, squeezing his cheeks like she had so many times in his childhood. Then she was leaving, and he could see the slump in her shoulders, an almost defeated stance. He'd won the argument, for what it was worth, but whispering after her, he felt far from secure and victorious. 

“Okay. Yeah, alright mom. I will.”

Marco sat for a few long, silent minutes and mulled over his options, before pulling his tablet from its case and propping it on the desk. 

He had a Skype call to make.

\--

“You told her, then?”

On Marco’s tablet screen, Jean stretched as he waited for Marco’s answer. It made Marco feel good, when as soon as he called his friend, Jean had asked what was troubling him. They knew each other well, that way. But he also knew Jean well enough to be sure that what he had to tell him wouldn't go over without at least a small, insanely awkward hitch.

“Yeah, but it didn't work out like I'd hoped, at all.”

Leaning back in his beanbag chair, Jean shook his head. “That kinda thing usually doesn't, I'd say.”

“No, I mean.” Marco scrubbed his face with his hands, already nauseous at the thought of telling Jean the whole truth of what had happened. “You're gonna hate me.”

“Why?” Jean asked, laughing into the fist he clenched around the neck of a plastic bottle. Marco shrugged, delaying the inevitable.

“I told her I had a boyfriend.”

“You don't though, do you?” Jean asked quickly, glaring playfully into the computer screen. He raised his bottle of soda, shaking it threateningly at Marco before taking a drink. “You haven't told me shit, if so, and that's a violation of bro code. Don't make me file a claim on your ass Marco, I won't hesitate.”

“I had to get her off my back and it just sort of slipped out, and… I told her it was you.”

“Wait, what? Me?!” Jean’s voice shifted suddenly in tone, sliding quickly from amused and indignant to startled and shaken. He backed away from the camera of his computer, on reflex. On the other end of the video call, Marco panicked.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Yours was just the first name out of my mouth, I don't know why, I couldn't think of anyone else. I… I'm really sorry.”

“God, Marco - what if she like… asks my mom, or something?” Jean scratched at the back of his neck, mouth twisted to one side as he considered the situation. Marco felt the weight of guilt settling in his stomach, but a moment later Jean shook his head, face determined, defiant. “No, you know what, fuck that. I'm not mad, and my mom probably wouldn't give a shit anyway. But holy hell, Marco -  _ why?” _

“I told you, I just couldn't think of anyone else, and--”

“No, I mean… Why  _ lie?”  _ Jean asked plainly. “Like this is a big ass lie, dude. What are you gonna do when she figures out that two thirds of your story is bullshit?”

“Well I'm kind of hoping she won't.” Marco admitted. “And I was kind of hoping you might be willing to help me with that.”

“What… What do you mean?” Jean raised an eyebrow, suspicious. Marco fidgeted on his bed where he lay, nibbling nervously at his lip before launching into his explanation.

“She asked me to bring you home to meet the family for Christmas, and--”

Jean sputtered, interrupting. “Marco, this had better not be going where I think--”

“If you could just fake it for like one week, I could--”

_ “Marco--” _

“It would just be for my family, and then we could stage a breakup right afterward, and--”

“Marco, no!”

“Jean, please?”

“Dude, your mom is gonna smell that bullshit from a mile away, and you know it.”

Marco clasped his hands in front of him, almost  _ praying _ to Jean for help at that point. “I can  _ prepare _ you for it, we have months. She’ll never know Jean, seriously.”

Jean clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “This is the dumbest idea I have ever heard out of your otherwise intelligent mouth.” 

“I'm desperate.” Marco admitted. Jean laughed.

“Oh, okay. I'm only your plan here because you're desperate.”

“That's not what I mean, asshole. You know it. I just need to do this and get her off my back, and then I can get on with my life and you will never have to be my pretend boyfriend again, I swear.” Marco knew how crazy it sounded, but he hoped Jean could also hear just how serious he was, how much desperation there was in his voice. “One week. That's all I need. Please?”

“And I get what in return, exactly?” Jean asked.

“Whatever you want,” Marco said hastily. “I'll do your homework, I'll help you study, I'll buy your freaking Starbucks for the entire semester. Anything you need, I'll be there, just do me this one favor.” He wasn't used to having to beg his friends for anything, as self sufficient as he prided himself on being, but this was of dire importance. It didn't hurt that Jean was incredibly susceptible to pleading, especially when Marco pulled The Face. Letting his lip quiver, he widened his eyes, looking the at the camera lens straight on, pout in full effect. 

Jean groaned. 

“God, Marco. Why do you have to add the eyes to it?” Dragging a hand through his hair Jean closed his eyes, finally nodding, clearly defeated. “Fine, fine, okay, I'll do it. Just - you'd better net me the honor roll this semester, you hear me?”

“I can probably arrange that.” Marco beamed, determined to agree to anything Jean asked for, as long as it meant he could go through with his master plan. Returning his eyes to the camera in decidedly less dramatic fashion, he grinned widely. “Thank you, Jean.” 

Rolling his eyes, Jean waved his hand like he was fanning the image on the screen away from himself. “Yeah, yeah. You're welcome. I want one of those shitty ‘world's greatest friend’ mugs for Christmas this year, you hear me?”

Marco gave him a lopsided smile, more genuine then, and pulled up a tab to search Amazon for a coffee mug.

“Also doable.”

\--

On the first afternoon that Marco was scheduled to meet up with Jean to chat about their winter break plans, the look on his friend’s face when Marco stepped through his dorm room door was so amusing, Marco nearly dropped his armload of supplies before he even made it inside.

“What are these?” Jean gaped, watching Marco deposit everything on the bed in front of him. Marco chuckled. 

“Photo albums,” he said. “I've got a lot to tell you about, before the holidays. Warn you about, mostly.”

Jean slowly nodded, mouth still hanging open. “And you need all this?”

“These are just the ones I could sneak without my mom freaking out. These have pictures of everything and everybody we’re likely to bump into, so they should be fine.”

“Good God.” Jean groaned, prodding at the the pages of one particularly shoddy looking album. Photos fell from the aging plastic pockets and onto his bed, sure to be misplaced in the shuffle. He sighed. “Let's get this out of the way.”

It was Marco’s turn to nod. “Alright, and after this, we can talk about your family.”

“Mine?” Jean bristled. “Why do you need to know about  _ mine?  _ We’re going to visit  _ your _ family.”

“I know, but who brings home a boyfriend who they know nothing about?”

“You know plenty about me.” Jean frowned. Marco couldn't help grinning at the obvious offense written in his pout, in the deep knit of Jean’s brow. 

“Knowing your favorite kind of pizza and who you first made out with in sixth grade isn't exactly ‘significant other level’ information, Jean.” Marco snorted. “Just humor me, okay? I really wanna make this believable.” 

There was a long pause, a sigh that harkened back to the one that Jean had given him on their skype call, a few weeks earlier, and then Jean closed his eyes, massaged his temples, and nodded again, resigned. 

“Yeah, alright. Let me get my highlighters and shit, since we’re studying.”

\--

They met once a week that way, at first. Marco would lug in piles of photo albums or his laptop or whatever he needed to show Jean his relatives, his childhood home, to illustrate the family stories he would tell him, and Jean would take notes. For the first few weeks his notes were literal scrawlings on paper, typed shorthand on his phone to refer back to later when the time came. But as the days of the fall semester wore on they became less formal, until he wasn't taking them at all, anymore. 

It wasn't that he had ceased to listen or care. Rather, he already knew the details, had memorized faces and facts and tales from Marco’s childhood, and instead of writing them down, he was free to laugh and smile along with Marco as he recited them, again and again. 

With the arrival of autumn, their study sessions became more casual, trivia reviewed over coffee or brunch rather than library tables. Jean began to neglect to bring his actual homework with him for Marco to finish, began to forget that end of the deal altogether. The topic of discussion was winter break, the entire time, every time. They took turns paying for meet ups, and when Marco’s turn fell on a Wednesday evening in mid-October, he chose his favorite Chinese restaurant, and to his surprise and delight, Jean revealed that it was one of his favorites as well. They settled in to break bread and make plans as they always did, both grinning ear to ear. 

“We’re gonna have to kiss and hold hands and shit, you know.” It was Jean that brought it up, and Marco shoved a forkful of sweet and sour pork into his mouth to give himself an extra beat of silence to think over how to respond. 

“I mean, yeah, I guess you're right,” he settled on after a moment. “If it bothers you, we can just--”

“It doesn't,” Jean said simply, shrugging. “Got make it believable, you know. And it's not like I've never kissed a guy before.”

Marco considered probing that particular topic, his curiosity more than piqued by Jean’s admission, but he needed to tread lightly, lest he make his fake boyfriend uncomfortable. He knew no protocol on how to handle that kind of situation, so he aired on the side of caution and let his mind wander in silence, nodding in quiet agreement. 

“Fortune cookie?” Jean asked, and it was obvious that he was not dwelling on his own words. Marco held a hand out with a smile, and Jean dropped a cookie there, letting his fingers linger atop the wrapper. “You wanna go first or should I?”

Twisting the wrapper until the air inside popped it open, Marco split his cookie open and pulled the thin slip of paper out. With Jean’s eyes on him, an amused smirk pulling at his lips as he stared, Marco read his fortune aloud. He couldn't help laughing through his words. 

“Love is right in front of you. Open your eyes.” He looked up at Jean, who was already laughing aloud. 

“The cookie people must be in on the plan,” he grinned, dismissive, and cracked his own cookie apart. Plucking his fortune from the crumbs, he read it like a joke. “Says ‘Honesty is the best policy’. Well, shit.”

They spent the rest of the meal and the evening that followed laughing and talking about their plans for deception with the best of intentions, and joking about Jean’s acting skills. It left Marco with a feeling of confidence, as heir meetings always did, as well as the warmth of familiarity and fondness that he'd grown used to, with Jean. It wasn't quite love, he told himself. But it was certainly a special frame of mind that he only ever found with Jean beside him, and that was worth more than the cost of a weekly dinner date. 

Though he couldn't explain why, as they cleared their table and left the wait staff a tip that night, he swept the fortune from his cookie off into his hand, and stuffed it into his wallet, smiling as he tucked it away. 

\--

On the day of the trip to his hometown, Marco felt ill. 

There was so much to remember, so many tiny cues that he and Jean would have to try to remember in front of everyone. From smiles to pet names to a practiced backstory of how they met and fell in love, it was a test for which there was entirely too much material that had been covered, and Marco felt like every bit of it had leaked right out his ears, the night before. 

But Jean seemed serene, and that bolstered him. Together, they pulled into his mother’s home, giving each other one last run down of facts before exchanging determined looks and heading inside. 

It was awkward, at first. The whole reason Marco was bringing a boyfriend home at all was to put an end to his family’s incessant chatter about his personal life, but in those first few hours, it only seemed to inspire more. His aunts and uncles stared, watched as he and Jean moved around the room greeting everyone, Marco feigning a casual air as he introduced Jean to all of them as his boyfriend. To his credit, Jean shook hands, took names, and made polite conversation at every stop, and was positively  _ beaming _ when presented to Marco’s mother, last of all. 

“It's so wonderful to meet you,” he said smoothly, taking her hand to kiss it. “Marco’s told me so many wonderful things, but you and your home are even lovelier in person.” As she chuckled with delight, he threw a glance over his shoulder, looking for praise, obviously proud of his efforts. Marco swallowed his amusement and laid a hand on Jean’s back, hoping not to startle him, pretending it was the kind of gesture they made every day. Jean, still grinning, leaned into his touch with the ease of someone who wasn't acting. Marco inhaled as deeply as his tight chest would allow, and fixed a smile on for the rest of the night. 

Thankfully, they were staying in a hotel, so at least once the evening had ended, they would have respite from watchful relatives. 

Dinner that evening was quieter than usual, as everyone seemed to be studying Marco and Jean. Marco tried to remind himself to be strong, to look comfortable and confident, and Jean fortified him in his efforts. Taking his hand when Marco was at his most nervous, Jean flashed him a reassuring smile, and though he knew his friend was only acting, it was convincing. Marco returned his smile and forged ahead, making conversation with those around him until they began to forget to talk  _ about _ he and Jean, and began talking  _ to _ them instead. 

They graciously opened gifts addressed to both of them, despite no common residence. Marco did the bulk of the unwrapping, so when Jean was presented with a gift to open by himself, the look on his face was one of genuine surprise. The knowing, amused smirk that replaced his confusion made Marco vibrate with laughter, as Jean held up his ‘World’s Best  _ Boyfriend’  _ mug, for everyone to see. 

It was greeted with applause, whistles and giggles, and a kiss shared between them that was real enough to scandalize the children and grandmothers.

Back in the hotel room that first night, they were scarcely in the door before Marco was pulling Jean into a tight hug. 

“You were amazing!” He yelped, shaking from the tension leaving him. “I can't believe - you were so good!” 

Huffing, Jean feigned offense. “So little faith in me,” he frowned. “I mean, I only studied for this shit for like six months. You'd think you wouldn't be surprised at my incredible boyfriend skills.”

“Color me impressed,” Marco laughed, collapsing on the bed in the center of the room. His mother had booked their room for him, a gift for the holiday, and it came with a giant, single, king sized bed. When he'd told Jean, he'd feared his friend would revolt, but Jean didn't seem to mind. 

“Dibs on the side closer to the window,” was all Jean said when Marco took a seat. “I'm not about that ‘sleeping by the door’ life.”

Marco snorted. “Afraid someone's gonna bust in and rob us of our dozens of dollars and Walmart cell phones?” Jean nodded, obviously amused as he unbuttoned his dress shirt and shrugged it from his shoulders and onto the floor before climbing onto the bed as well. 

“Yup. I’m not fighting with ‘em. I'll leave that one to my boyfriend.” He winked in Marco’s direction before reaching down to untie his shoes. Marco smiled in return, and something in his chest felt warm. Perhaps he was just happy that they had pulled it off so easily, or perhaps it was something else. 

Either way, he drifted off to sleep that night with a smile on his face, the sounds of Jean’s soft snores lulling him like Christmas hymn. 

\--

Bodt family holidays were many days long, every year. Marco had warned Jean about that fact, but experiencing it together was something else entirely. Every day was different, and yet the familiar feeling of being observed was present throughout. 

Luckily, they were prepared for that, too. 

As the week rolled slowly along, Marco and Jean became better actors with every passing hour. From fingers slotted together on slow strolls through the park to look at Christmas lights with his younger siblings to arms draped casually along the backs of chairs at dinner after brunch after holiday luncheons, the two of them made quite a beautiful pair, if Marco did say so, himself. And quite a convincing one. 

Gone were the awkward glances between scenes they enacted for their audience, replaced by lingering smiles, even after eyes had left them. Marco had never smiled so much in his twenty one years, and after a few days, they went from the practiced grins of a person performing to the genuine joy of a person who radiated happiness. For all the world, they really did look like a couple, in love. All of their rehearsal, their studying of one another had paid off, and no one so much as suspected that they were only acting. 

In fact, by midweek, it became easy for Marco to forget, himself. 

Waking up beside Jean in their spacious but shared hotel bed that third morning, he lay quiet, just watching him breathe. The soft light of a winter morning was emanating from the shaded window, beams of snow-brightened sunlight poking through the patterns of the curtain lace. It glowed behind Jean’s sleeping form, lighting his skin; he looked like the many angels that decorated churches and homes in Marco’s neighborhood, that time of year. 

Slumbering, softly smiling in his sleep, Jean lay beside him, soon to tackle another day, acting like his devoted boyfriend, pretending to be in love with him. 

It was then that Marco realized that he himself was not pretending, anymore. 

Silent, careful not to wake his best friend, Marco rose from where he had slept, gently replacing the blankets and heading for the tiny hotel bathroom. The lights were offensively bright and the mirror a little too honest as it showed the circles beneath his eyes that urged him to return to bed. But he couldn't. Having realized just how he felt, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to again, at all. 

He was in love with Jean, had fallen in love with his best friend, despite having every intention not to. It wasn't that he was upset by the thought; he could have certainly done worse than Jean Kirschtein. Rather, he was broken hearted, knowing that his heart had settled on something that he could never grant it. 

Jean would surely never love him in return, not the way he loved Jean, more and more with every thought he let himself entertain. And how could he expect him to? He had already asked more of Jean than he had any right to, and Jean had agreed, even willfully forgotten to hold Marco to his promised end of their bargain. Jean had shown so much care for him; Marco felt selfish, suddenly wishing for more. 

But he could not deny that he did, all the same. There was no one he could talk to about it, no one he could vent his frustration to, nor would he have, if anyone had offered. Rather, he splashed his face with two hands full of cold water, glancing up into the mirror to look himself in the eye, a silent vow that he alone would deal with that particular inconvenience. 

With a soft knock, Jean let him know that he had awoken. Marco turned on his heel to open the door, maybe a little too quickly, because Jean’s eyes went wide for a moment when they came face to face with one another. But then he was smiling, sleepy and sweet, and he breezed past him as Marco stepped out, dragging a hand across Marco’s chest in a way that could only be described as affectionate. The door closed and locked behind him, and Marco moved back to the bed, glad that it was empty. 

He flopped down onto it, face buried in a pillow as he deflated with a long sigh. Never had he been so upset by his own happiness - or hoped the holidays would hurry up and pass. 

Hearing the shower kick on, he fumbled for the remote where Jean had tossed it onto the bedside table the night before and began surfing channels, looking for something that might distract him long enough to steady his nerves for the day ahead. 

\--

Preparing the Christmas meal for the table, Marco’s mother worked mostly alone in her large kitchen. In generations past, she had readied the food alongside her own mother, and something about seeing her by herself made Marco sad. Without asking her outright, he joined her, taking care of the things she needed done between larger tasks. 

“Who are you trying to impress, helping me so much?” She teased after a little while. With everything in the oven or bubbling away on the stove, she was nearly finished with the hardest elements of her work, and through her exhaustion, the pride was evident on her face. Marco shook his head, smiling. 

“No one, mom. Jean’s in the other room, if that's what you're thinking.” He motioned with the soiled silverware in his hand, pointing her attention toward the dining room, where Jean was regaling the children of the family with stories of the first release of Pokemon cards and games. The kids hung on his every word, and Marco’s mother seemed almost as taken with the image as Marco himself. 

“He's a good boy, Marco. I'm glad you have him.”

At that, Marco turned away to look down at the dishes he was washing, so that his mother couldn't see the way he winced. She sighed happily, watching Jean occupy the children, oblivious to Marco’s sadness.

“I’m glad you told me. I'm glad you brought him home to meet us. And sweetheart, I'm so, so glad you've found someone who loves you so much. It's obvious that he adores you - you two are crazy about each other. Thank you both for sharing your holidays with us.” With that, his mother walked up behind him, her head coming to rest on his upper back as she patted his shoulder. Swallowing, Marco hid the sinking feeling of hearing her praise of his and Jean’s love, and knowing that every minute of it was entirely fabricated. 

“Yeah,” he said simply, nodding. “Thank you, mom. I'm glad it could be like this.”

\--

That evening, once the commotion of company had died down to a slow smolder, Marco slipped away for a moment alone. With Jean still wrapped up in a long conversation about Pokemon generations with his cousins, Marco figured he wouldn't be missed by anyone, as long as he wasn't gone too long. He only needed some air, and he found it, in the sheltered sitting area that sat at the center of his family home’s garden. 

Around him, the landscape was dusted with snow. There was a soft silence as it fell, just enough to stick to the tops of cars and the unwalked sidewalks of the suburban streets at night. There in the garden, stepping stones were hardly visible on the ground as he made his way to the little gazebo, batting at the wooden bench that wrapped around its center to clear the snow before he sat. 

It was beautiful, his hometown in December. He was always glad to return to it, glad to share those happy days with family. That year, he was even more fortunate to share it with Jean, to be able to show him just how wonderful the holidays could be in a place so truly picturesque. Really, he was lucky just to share them with Jean, regardless of the scenery around them. 

Marco wasn't aware that he had begun to cry until the first tears fell onto his hands, the wetness warm for all of a second before the frigid air chilled it nearly to ice. He dug into his pockets for a pair of gloves and slipped them on, using their soft, dry warmth to dab at the tears still welling at the corners of his eyes. Watching the snow fall, he let himself let go of the hurt that he'd been holding onto for days, with no one around to ask bothersome questions about why he was weeping. 

Until he heard the rapid approach of footsteps. 

Warm breath encircling his head like a halo of smoke in the freezing night air, Jean was heading toward him. On his face, a look of relief - he'd been looking for Marco. Swallowing hard to will his tears away, Marco couldn't help smiling at that. 

“Hey,” Jean said, lip quivering a little as he shivered in the cold. “Why you out here, freezin’ your ass off instead of lining up for pie? The kids are gonna get all the best pieces.” He grinned, and it was big and bright, his face lit by the moon and its reflection on the mounting snow. Marco shrugged. 

“Came out here to think,” he replied. Jean looked him up and down, still smiling. 

“What are you thinking about, alone in the middle of Elsa’s country, out here?”

That, Marco wasn't sure how to answer. There was no easy way to tell Jean that he had needed space, needed time away from the heart-wrenchingly beautiful sight of Jean with the children of his family, the sounds of his laughter as he mingled effortlessly with Marco’s aunts and uncles, the feeling of Jean’s fingers laced with his. There was no lie he could tell that wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't make the fact that they only had a few more days of pretending left before they would head back to campus, and he would return to life without Jean at his side. 

So with no other option, Marco settled for the truth. 

“You.”

For a moment, Jean just looked back at him, confusing playing across his features. Marco didn't offer to clarify, only showed that Jean should know what he meant by shrugging, giving up on any other explanation. Finally, Jean seemed to understand. At least somewhat. 

“Me - you came out here to think about me? Did I do something wrong, or just. What?”

“No,” Marco replied, in too deep to wade backward out of the waters of his confession. “I was just thinking… I like you, Jean. Like, I  _ really _ like you. This week has been amazing, and I've had so much fun, with you, specifically. I've found myself wishing it could be like this every Christmas, all the time, every day. I guess, I… I wish this were  _ real, _ is what I'm saying.”

“Marco…” Jean breathed, hardly audible, but it hung in the air in front of him, a cloud rising as other words failed him. Marco shook his head. 

“It's okay. I know that's not what this is about for you. It wasn't supposed to be for me, either. I'm. I'm really sorry, Jean. I promise I won't make things weird when we get back to school. I just - I've spent all week pretending to be in love with you, and I guess I just… stopped pretending.”

There was a long pause, and Marco could feel every happy memory of the week prior threatening to be soured by the moment in which he sat, cold and hard and far too tense. But then Jean was stepping closer, into his space and kneeling in front of him, and the look on his face was strange, but it definitely wasn't the disgust Marco had feared he would see. 

“You… Marco, did you really think I was going to be mad at you, for telling me that?” Jean stared at him for a moment, and then, much to Marco’s surprise, a smile split his face and he laughed, a sound like a bark that broke the silence around them and rang like music through the night. 

“I’ve already put you through so much, though,” Marco sighed, beginning to smile, himself, in spite of the ache that still lingered in his throat and chest. Jean shook his head, grinning wider. 

“And I stuck around, didn't I? I studied for the boyfriend test and did all the backbends and swam all the laps - pretty sure I deserve a medal, at least for effort. But I did it because I  _ wanted _ to. I've never bolted on you just for dropping some intense shit on me before - why would you think this would be any different?”

“I just know this week - this whole semester - has been a lot on you, and all of that is my fault. I didn't mean to pile falling in love with you on top of it all.” Marco wrung his gloved hands, but Jean reached up to hold them, steady them. 

“Could've been way worse, you know,” he smirked, and finally, Marco let himself laugh, tears escaping even as he did. “And besides,” Jean smiled, squeezing Marco’s fingers, “I can totally understand where you're coming from. One of the reasons I'm not mad is because I haven't actually  _ been _ acting in… A long time, honestly.”

In the chill of the winter evening, Marco could feel his ears go hot, all of a sudden. “You w-what?”

Jean laughed through his nose. “You heard me. This week was about being your fake boyfriend, right? Well the only thing I've been faking is  _ pretending _ to be in love with you. Marco, this has been real for me the whole time.”

Marco looked back at him, shocked into still, stunned silence. For a moment, he wasn't sure whether to laugh or to cry, but when his brain finally rebooted, he settled on smacking Jean lightly on the shoulder and pouting incredulously. 

“It was - you mean - well, why didn't you  _ tell _ me that?!” 

At that, Jean laughed hard enough to knock himself flat on his ass. Marco crossed his arms over his chest, feeling himself blushing hard at Jean’s laughter, but also silently wishing it would never end. That wish was not granted, but another seemed to be coming true, right there in front of him as Jean got to his knees again, coming close enough to Marco that the heat of their breath rose in a single cloud. 

“I didn't tell you because I didn't know if you'd want that, too. I was just doing what you asked me to do, being here this week. But I knew from the minute you asked me to do this I was doomed, and I was so damned right.” He took Marco’s hand again, holding it, turning it over in his own to slip his fingers through fabric clad ones. Marco squeezed on reflex, then swallowed. 

“So, uh. What… What do you wanna do now?” 

Jean shrugged, the glow of laughter still lighting his face. “I dunno. I don't know the rules for asking my fake boyfriend to be my real one.”

Marco bit his bottom lip, feeling the coolness of the skin there slide between his teeth as he bit back a cheeky little grin. “Don't know if there are any.”

“Hmm. Oh well,” Jean chuckled, leaning forward, his face only a breath away from Marco’s, then. “Guess we’ll just have to make them up as we go along, then.”

At that, he brought their lips together, and Marco gasped into the kiss. Over the days prior and their many ‘study sessions’, he'd kissed Jean before, over and over. But something about this was different and new, warm against the December cold, a light in the winter night. As Marco slid arms around Jean’s neck, he felt the weight that had pressed down on his chest for days drifting away like the last few pages on a calendar, flipping away carelessly as the year rolled toward its end. He had survived the week, survived the lie, and come out of it blessedly, beautifully,  _ honestly _ in love with a person who loved him back just as much. 

Sighing as they parted, he hummed happily at the way Jean smiled at him before pressing their foreheads together. 

“So. You wanna go back inside the house? It’s awfully cold outside.  _ Baby.”  _

Marco’s shiver had little to do with the cold as he nodded, rising to his feet at Jean’s urging and threading their fingers together as they headed back toward the house. Inside they would surely be accosted by curious relatives about what they'd been doing outside, and this time, there would be no trace of pretense as Marco coyly smiled in reply. 

They took their time on the walk back, enjoying every step, hand in hand. 

“So, you have any New Year’s Eve plans, gorgeous?” Jean asked, thumb rubbing small circles over the back of Marco’s hand. Marco shrugged one shoulder, stepping up onto the stone landing in front of the house’s door. 

“Not sure. Whatever my boyfriend wants to do, I guess.” He couldn't help the wide grin that broke across his face at the mention of the word. Jean apparently couldn't, either. Pulling Marco to him by the waist, he smirked, pressing a kiss beside his ear, leaning in close to whisper to him. 

“Be with you,” he said quietly, hugging Marco, holding him close. “That's all your boyfriend wants to do tomorrow, and probably every day for the rest of the new year.”

Marco nodded, turning his head to press kisses to the side of Jean’s face. “That can probably be arranged.”

He nosed at Jean’s cheek, until Jean turned his face and captured Marco’s lips again, slow and sweet and very,  _ very _ real. They kissed until they were both smiling again, and until the sound of the door opening beside them broke them apart, as jubilant relatives pulled them both inside again, loud, happy voices urging them to rejoin the celebration. Hands and arms wherever they wanted to be for the rest of the evening, they did just that, sharing laughter and long looks until the last guests had departed, and they could leave as well, and spend their last night there in Marco’s hometown before heading back to campus, and back to a new life that they would create, together. 

Marco thought back to the fortune cookie, back to his wishes and wildest dreams for the coming year, and smiled, knowing he had all of them, and more. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you thought, and be sure to give feedback and praise to my wonderful artist collaborators! 
> 
> For more of my writing:  
> Find me on [tumblr](quartetship.tumblr.com)!  
> Find me on [twitter](twitter.com/_quartetship_)!


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